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The disgruntled snort that rasps through the phone brings me intense satisfaction.
“It’s been pleasant getting to know you a little better. I look forward to our next chat.”
“Maybe next time, you can call at a decent hour–and not contact me like we’re playing a child’s game of telephone.”
The line cuts out, and I resist the urge to laugh. Despite the thinly veiled animosity between us, I get the strange sense that I might learn to like Nicolo. At least he’s more predictable than his father–even his his fuse is impressively short.
But on a more serious note, that phone call confirms my sneaking suspicion that this is more than a petty act of personal payback, which means I have a new rival in town.Der’mo.
25
WHITNEY
One Year Later
A bitter January breeze cuts through my down jacket, and I pull my beanie down tighter over my ears to ward off the chill as Anya and I help her little girl haul the round plastic sled back up the snowy park hill. Little Clara seems impervious to the cold as she giggles ecstatically in her colorful marshmallow-like snow gear that makes her arms stick out in a permanent T.
“Again, again!” she squeals, jumping up and down as we reach the small peak.
“Okay, baby, but this is the last time. Then we go for hot chocolate. How does that sound?” Anya asks.
“Yeah!”
The little ball of sunshine–the one Anya and Nicolo had in high school, unbeknownst to Nicolo until about a year ago–is impossible to disappoint. I have to confess that since Anya first told me about her daughter, I have come to adore Clara. It’s amazing to me how opening up about the physically small yet significant secret has made such a big difference in my friend’s life. When Anya finally told me all about her little girl shortly after Nicolo found out, I could see the weight lift off her shoulders.
And since then, she’s seemed so free, so full of hope and happiness. That deep sadness that used to linger in her eyes is gone, replaced by a joy that I know has come from her relationship with Nicolo and their family, which has come together so perfectly. What I once saw as a toxic relationship has transformed into something worthy of the storybooks as Nicolo has proven time and again that he’s not only a committed and loving father but also madly in love with my sweet, kind, beautiful best friend. And I couldn’t be happier for her.
“You want me to get on first?” Anya asks her daughter, stooping to stabilize the sled.
“No, I want to go with Auntie!” Clara objects, pointing to me.
I beam at the christening I’ve been given. Clara started calling me Auntie somewhere along the line, which I’ve concluded is her term of endearment she uses for any woman she loves who is not her mother. She also calls Anya’s aunt “Auntie,” and I just feel honored to be included in that select group.
“Me?” I say, pressing my palms to my chest like her preference is a treasured gift. “Alright, munchkin. Let’s go.” I park the sled in the snow and settle onto the back of it, letting the soft flakes crunch beneath me until I’m on solid ground. Then I hold my arms out for Clara.
The little girl giggles as she climbs clumsily into my lap, her snow boots harmlessly stumbling over my thighs.
“You ready?” I ask. “Hold on tight.”
Clara can barely reach the sled’s rope handles on either side, so she grabs my knees, and I grip her firmly with my legs as I take the handles myself.
“One, two, three!” Anya counts and gives me a solid push, sending us over the edge of the hill to slide over the fluffy white powder that fell only last night. It’s perfect for sledding in, especially with a five-year-old who isn’t ready for steep slopes or crazy speed.
Clara squeals as we race down the hill, her arms clinging to me. And when we finally come to a stop, we both topple onto the soft, cold ground as the flimsy sled tips. Peals of laughter burst from Clara as she rolls around, and I can’t help but join in her laughter as I stand up and brush myself off. Anya joins us a moment later, having made her way down the hill after us. We brush Clara off and each take a mittened hand before Anya scoops up the sled with her free hand.
“So… any word from the scouts?” Anya asks casually, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. She knows it’s a sensitive subject, seeing as she’s already been offered a position with the Joffrey Ballet as soon as we graduate at the end of this semester.
Meanwhile, I’ve received plenty of interest and seem to have made a solid impression on the scouts who have appeared at my showcases, but no one has approached me with an offer. I’m so happy for Anya, and I know she more than anyone deserves to have a career in the theater. She’s the best of us by leaps and bounds, but I’m starting to panic that I might not make it professionally if I can’t get an offer by the end of the year.
I groan, letting my head tip back to emphasize my stress as we walk with Clara toward the hot chocolate stand at the corner of the park. “No. Sometimes I wonder if it was a bad call to stick with Trent as my partner for senior year.”
Not that I’m blaming Trent, but I did have the opportunity to dance with Fin when he came back to school after postponing his graduation for a year in order to give his arm enough time to heal. At the start of the fall semester, Fin asked if I would be his partner, which had been both flattering and sorely tempting. But after what had happened between Fin and Nicolo over his partnership with Anya, and combined with how Ilya had initially responded to Trent, I thought it best to stick with a partner I’m confident Ilya accepts. Now, I’m starting to wonder if I might not have hurt my chances because Fin was just offered a position with a ballet company in New York.
“You and Trent are a beautiful team. I’m sure you’ll get an offer,” Anya says reassuringly. “It’s rare for scouts to make an offer before the end of the year anyway. I think they’re just doing a panic grab to ensure they getsomeoneright now.”
I snort at Anya’s attempt to downplay the significance of receiving an early offer. “I think what you mean to say is they’re making a panic grab for thebestdancers. The rest of us peons can just wait our damn turns. But the anticipation is killing me!”
“I know,” she says sympathetically.
